


First of November

by issabella



Category: Jane Eyre (2011), X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Fusion, M/M, McFassy, Púca | Pooka, all the aus, all the crossovers, celtic folklore
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-13
Updated: 2012-12-13
Packaged: 2017-11-21 01:36:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,026
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/591970
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/issabella/pseuds/issabella
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>On his way to Thornfield, Rochester's horse gets spooked by someone suddenly crossing his path. A someone who insists he be forgiven for causing Rochester to get injured.</p>
            </blockquote>





	First of November

**Author's Note:**

> I sat down to write my other fic but ended up typing this. Mixed up Jane Eyre with folkales about pookas and other fairies, added the image of James McAvoy in Macbeth, gave it all a good shake and this was the result.  
> ++  
> Not an english native speaker.
> 
> Oh and there is a pic-set that goes with this. Can be found here: http://issabella.tumblr.com/post/37843472444/my-fic-writing-attempts-got-highjacked-by-a-new

It was the first of November and the weather accordingly. The air was cold, and the mist hung low between the gnarled trees. It was eerily quiet, no bird song could be heard and even the sound the horse's heavy hooves made, were muffled by the wet and mouldy leaves on the trodden path.

 

Edward Fairfax Rochester shivered, though he told himself it was just from the wet cold, penetrating even through the thick jacket he wore. His gaze darted towards some dark shapes he passed, but it were only gnarled branches that looked like reaching hands in the glum light.

 

Still he had the odd feeling of being watched.

 

He remembered the stories of his childhood, told to him by his mother, about strange creatures, trolls and fairies living in these woods.

 

Involuntarily he growled. He was a grown man. He had seen the world and learnt about it's harsh reality. Surely he had grown out of believing in fairy tales.

 

He spurred his horse on, wanting nothing but to get back to Thornfield hall and the blazing fire in the fireplace and a good glass of scotch to warm him from the inside.

 

Suddenly a dark shadow darted across the path. His horse reared up, neighed in fear, kicking its front hooves in the air. Cursing Rochester tried to hold on to the reigns. He felt his horse loose it's footing on the wet ground and...

 

The next thing he knew, he was lying on the damp ground. Groaning he sat up, coming face to face with a pale face. For a moment Rochester stared in fear, thinking it was one of the creatures out of his childhood stories. But then the creature spoke. “I am so sorry. Are you injured Sir? May I be of some help?” The accent was strange, Scottish maybe. But the voice showed only concern and neither glee nor spite, like he would have thought an evil fairy would sound.

 

The blue eyes showed compassion and maybe a little guilt and Rochester remember the shadow darting across the path, startling his horse and making him fall. “You! Get back, you!” he snarled, noting satisfied as the creature – no – man, drew back, startled.

 

Fueled by anger, Rochester scrambled back up onto his feet. Sharp pain lanced through his right ankle, as he put some weight on it and he hobbled over to the nearest mosscovered tree-stump to sit down.

 

The reason for his fall still stood there, looking at him. Rochester took a moment to asses him, noting the old-fashioned cut of the man's jacket. It was a dark red colour, like wine, and seemed to be made of velvet, but had patches of bright green on the elbows. And to add to the oddness, it was trimmed with soft rabbit fur. Underneath the man only wore a white shirt, though he had bothered with a hideous green and orange chequered cravat. Red trousers and black shoes with gold buckles completed the garish assemble. The man's face was young though. His hair was brown, kept a bit long. His beard looked to have a reddish shine to it and his eyes were a bright clear blue, that reminded Rochester of the sea in the West Indies. The man dared to step closer. “Where are you from? Can I fetch some help?”

 

“If you really are sorry, you can help me yourself.” Rochester motioned towards his horse, that had made it back to its feet and wandered not far. “Get hold of his bridle and lead him to me.”

 

Eagerly the young man hurried towards the horse and Rochester smirked, just waiting for the horse to shy away from the blundering fool.

 

Dumbfounded Rochester watched as the horse did not even twitch as it was taken by its bridle and led towards where he was sat. The young man smiled brightly at him. “Anything else I can help you with? This is, after all, very embarrassing. And I cannot express my apologies enough. For this to happen to me today.”

 

“Well you seemed to have gotten off rather unscathed.” Rochester grumbled at the odd young man. “Now help me up.”

 

One hand still on the reigns the young man bent down to slide his arm around Rochester and pull him up with ease. Surprised Rochester looked down at him. The odd young man hadn't seemed that strong. “Where are you from, and what are you doing in these dark woods?”

 

“Oh, I am from around here. And I was just on my way to a little party. Though it feels like I don't deserve to celebrate after having caused you an injury, Sir.” He looked up at him, a hint of worry in his eyes. “Please, say you forgive me for causing you to fall.”

 

Despite the crestfallen look there seemed to be something impish lurking in the young man's eyes. Rochester felt reluctant to dismiss the accident so easily. “What's your name?”

 

“My name? Oh...” After a moments thought the young man grinned and said. “Macbeth... Joe Macbeth.”

 

Rochester snorted. “That is not your name.”He freed himself from the young man's hold on him, by climbing back onto his horse – which he managed with not the usual swiftness or dignity.

 

“But I like that name.” Not – Joe Macbeth said with a bright smile that faded slowly under Rochester's hard glare.

 

“If you cannot even give me the courtesy of your true name don't expect me to accept your apology and just get out of my way.” He veered the horse round to look the right direction. For a moment he was tempted to look back, oddly curious if the young man with the sea-blue eyes would give in. After all, he seemed very intent, to get his forgiveness. But the feeling of irritation kept the upper hand and he nudged his horse into a brisk canter, that quickly would take him out of the foggy woods.

 

X X X

 

That night Rochester found himself tossing and turning restlessly in his bed. Every time he nodded of he dreamt. In his dream he was wandering through the familiar foggy wood, that looked so unfamiliar at the same time. There was no path and he was left to stumble over mossy stones and roots, protruding from the ground. And every time he felt, no, he knew, he was being watched. And every time he opened his mouth to yell for the watcher to come out of hiding, he woke up.

 

He contemplated on just giving up on sleep tonight. Maybe he should just go downstairs into his cold salon, get a book to read or pour himself something to drink. Surely that would help dull the low throbbing in his ankle at least.

 

In the distance he heard the bells chime, marking the middle of the night.

 

Resignedly he turned to his side, and found he no longer was alone in his room – or his bed.

 

With a startled shout he scrambled back and out of bed, trying to get as much distance between himself and...

 

Rochester's eyes widened as he made out the figure of the young man who had introduced himself as Joe Macbeth, sitting unabashedly on his bed.

 

“Well now, you made me miss the party.” The young man said as way of greeting.

 

“How did you get in?” Rochester felt the urge to check the locks on doors and windows, yet was reluctant to turn his back on the nightly intruder.

 

Joe Macbeth, or whoever he was, ignored the question. “You, Edward Fairfax Rochester, are a very stubborn man!”

 

“What do you want?”

 

“Ah, that's a better question. You see, I offered to apologize, no, I begged to be allowed to apologize. But you refused. Because of that, because I was nasty to a human on the one day I am bound to only do good, I was not allowed to the party. So now I came here, because now you own me an apology, for ruining my night.”

 

“It rather does sound like we are even. But, what do you mean, human, you say it like... like you are not.” Perhaps he was dreaming again. A different dream this time, but a dream nonetheless.

 

“Oh no, we are not even!” The young man stood up on Rochester's bed, walked over the mattress, unconcerned and sure-footed despite it giving way under each step and jumped to the ground in front of Rochester.

 

Rochester realised the young man actually no longer wore that garish jacket, and no shoes. All he was wearing was the white shirt and red trousers. “And for what I mean. Have you not been paying attention. Have you not been listening to the tales. Edward – Fairfax – Rochester.”

 

The way he said his name made Rochester shiver. Like it gave the other man power over him. 'If you know a fairies name, you have power over it. - He didn't want to give me his real name. - Oh my god, I'm not considering that to be true. I must be dreaming.'

 

“Well?”

 

“Well what?” He looked down into the azure blue eyes, that seemed just as vivid in the dark.

 

“Have you guessed yet, what I am?”

 

“You have not exactly given me any clue.”

 

“Oh.” A wide smile spread on the young man's face that could have been described as charming and impish at the same time. He vigorously shook his head and suddenly there were big brown bunny-ears, hanging down the side of his face. They were twitching.

 

Before Rochester could think he had reached out and touched the soft fur with his fingertips. It felt real. Not like a dream or some trick.

 

“I could turn into a pony too.”

 

“Pooka. You – are a pooka!” The words came out in a breathless whisper. Rochester still could not quite believe what he said himself.

 

“Good. I would have been offended if you had called me a troll or leprechaun, you know. And I am already mad at you.”

 

“What?”

 

The pooka rolled his eyes. “I told you before. For ruining my night of fun!”

 

Rochester felt a spark of anger. Anger was familiar. He clung to it. It had helped him so far, in a world unjust and cruel, it would have to do in a world that had decided to have a man with bunny-ears show up in his bed in the middle of the night. “Ruining your night! YOU spooked my horse. YOU made me fall and YOU are responsible for my hurt ankle. You brought it all on yourself.”

 

For a moment there was a shadow crossing the pooka's face and he looked – dangerous. Rochester tensed, fear dampening his anger a little.

 

But the shadow was gone as quickly as it came and the pooka literally dragged him to the bed and pushed him back to sit down. He then knelt in front of him, hands taking hold of his hurt ankled still wrapped in bandages. The touch was oddly gentle, and warm. The warmth seeped through the bandages, into his skin and bones. Rochester felt himself relax as the throbbing pain turned into a distant memory. His eyes drifted shut and a sigh escaped his lips.

 

As he opened his eyes again, he still felt warm, despite the cool air in his bedroom. The pooka no longer touched his leg but had his arms resting on Rochester's knees, looking curiously up at him.

 

He swallowed and shifted slightly, aware he was only wearing a nightshirt. “Thank you, pooka.”

 

“You still can call me Macbeth. Or Joe... I think I would like you to call me Joe, when you make it up to me.”

 

“Make it up to you?”

 

“My night of missed fun.” Joe pushed himself up. He put one hand at the nape of Rochester's neck to pull him closer for a kiss.

 

Rochester thought he should protest. He should push Joe away and yell at him. How dare he. How dare he assume. He should not drown in the warmth of those lips and the eyes as blue as the ocean in the West Indies. But he did.

 


End file.
